


...Which Leads to Debauchery (And There I Stand Kneeling)

by tyroneslothrop



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alcoholism, An exercise in symbolism, Canned laughter, Kinda, M/M, Phan - Freeform, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyroneslothrop/pseuds/tyroneslothrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the Spirit."<br/>- Ephesians 5:18</p>
            </blockquote>





	...Which Leads to Debauchery (And There I Stand Kneeling)

_My right hand is my right and my left hand is my left_

_My hunger! the scepter of which I do attest_

_And I feast upon potatoes, barley, apples and grapes_

_Alas, not a single one is sat upon a plate_

_Oh, daily duties, such a vicious infinite pest!_

_When the only thing I wish is the lull of my bed_

_And just me and the ceiling, juice swimming in my head_

_My left hand is my right and my right hand is my left_

 

I kissed him with reverence, as if he were a wine bottle.

But for shame, his lips were just not as intoxicating! Yet I still clung to the pale of his back as if he would slip through my fingers and through the cracks of our tattered floorboards. Sometimes I fear he might, as I often catch him drifting through the living room, 2 AM, the garish blue moonlight turning his skin translucent, a vapid look in his eye. I will ask him what is wrong, and he will not answer. His fingers just continue to tremble and oscillate, sliced by the blinds hung loosely from the window. And I will float back to bed with the threat of a headache looming.

His body is heavy and writhing in my arms, and this is one of the few passing times in which he will let me touch him. So I revel in it, his sweet stomach fluttering beneath my fingertips, softer since I was last allowed in his vicinity. The distillery of his love! I am delirious on it and it shows. His mouth ruby red. Sweet tongue poking between my teeth.

"Phil..." he whispers, choking on the last letter and stuttering into my neck

I am Phillip, and whilst I have many positive qualities, sobriety is not one of them. But we'll get to that later. Currently, I have much more pressing matters to attend to.

Slowly, we kiss till our lungs cry to us: stop! We part with nothing but a single string of saliva between our faces. Dan looks down on me, his eyes wet and smiling in the pale light of day. Swollen lips grace a white canvas. I am but a humble admirer. With a flick of my brush, I reach up to touch his cheek...

He goes! He slips through my fingers and the supple flesh of his thigh slices against our glass table. Our painter has been a bit too happy with the scarlet paint, it seems. I try to mop him up, worshiping my mouth upon his knee.

-

Pray do tell what I have done! It has been but a week since I cut my part-time lover's thigh. I clean him, console him and cuddle him through the night, and this is my treatment in return! He is a ghost in his own house. Refusing to talk. Flinching if I brush past. He never asks if I need the toilet before he cleanses himself. I have pissed in bottles and the sink four times this week, and it is only Wednesday! The kitchen reeks of stale urine, and he refuses to dine with me.

And he has hidden my wine.

-

“I can't figure you out.”

I move back, stunned.

“You have only known me for 6 years, Daniel! How can you not know me! I am bound to thee forever.” I twist my ring unconsciously as I say this, and it does not go unnoticed.

“I can't figure you out.”

His soliloquizing is interrupted by the smash of a bottle neck over the counter top. Crimson drips down his hands like paint. I am stoic. He begins to clean up the shards carelessly. I can see blood dabble in the thin wine. Crimson drips down his hands like paint. He dumps it in the trash. He ignores the puddle on the floor. I am still silent. He retires.

Like a dog, I fall to my knees and lick up the remaining rosé. The thick tang of grime and fluff grazes my tongue. Face down, arse up, like a dog. It drips down my chin and onto my neck. My hands are buried into the filth. I drink. Crimson drips down my hands like paint. I retire.

-

_Enter **PHIL,** stumbling._

**PHIL.** Honey, I'm home! _(canned laughter)_

 **DAN.** _(Off)_ Did you remember the milk, sweetie?

 **PHIL.** Hic, nope! _(canned laughter)_

 _Enter_ _ **DAN,**_ _holding a bowl and beating a cake mixture._

 **DAN.** But I told you to get it four hours ago!

 **PHIL.** Well maybe you should have told me five hours ago! _(canned laughter)_

 **DAN.** _(sniffs the air, grimaces)_ You've been drinking! You promised to stop!

 **PHIL.** And you promised to get better in bed, but I'm still waiting for that! _(canned laughter)_

-

Is alcoholism an inheritable trait?

I am not indebted to my parents, as my mother never touched a drop and my father only drank when the bells rang in. Yet I have heard tales of aunts and uncles banned from family gatherings, as the stench of vodka is tangible before they even pass the door. The dogs from next door howling to our sober moon.

But I digress. Is it ingrained or is it learned? Did little doe eyed me admire the rebel hearts of my drunken relatives? Or did my craving for sweet berry nectar rise as I was lifted from the womb?

I do not have time to ponder much more, as Dan has arrived, shopping bags heavy in his fair maiden arms. He gives me a weary look as he drops them underneath the stove. Then, not unlike the bags, he collapses onto the chair adjacent to me and gives me a sunken glare. I only just remember the several empty bottles that encase me.

“How are you?” I try. It comes out as “Hrowww ar yehhhw?”

He keeps glaring till I try a smile, and his stare dejectedly sinks into something more distant and hurt. I try to appear concerned. My face probably distorts into something evil instead.

And there continues to sit, eyebrows furrowed, head hung on his shoulders like a tombstone, staring at me with his worn out eyes. "I can't figure you out," he chokes, temples trembling.

Oh Daniel, I've only been writing of the night, you silly goose!

I pick up another bottle. The night folds on me again, and he is left, no flowers on the gravestone he calls his head.

-

_Enter **PHIL** and **DAN**._

**PHIL**. Today is Thursday. _(canned laughter)_

 **DAN**. Did you remember the milk?

 **PHIL**. The vanity of the contents of individual experience is inscrutable as an inessential trapping drawn into a matter by vested interests. _(canned laughter)_

 **DAN** _._ _(turns head)_ Did you remember the milk?

 **PHIL**. Correct.

 **DAN**. My right hand is my right hand.

 **PHIL**. Maybe. _(canned laughter)_

 **DAN**. Your mother should have washed your mouth out with soap! _(canned laughter)_

_A window opens suddenly. Dan startles._

**DAN**. This is your mother speaking. _(canned laughter)_

 **PHIL**. She sure did.

-

And there I stand kneeling. I try to melt the thick hatred permeating from his eyes by bobbing faster. It does not work. But I continue on my journey down his length, stale and sharp, not unlike William Tell's arrow. Is my mouth the apple? Is he not cheating, then? Shall they kill our unborn son? I am aware of my flaccid cock as if it may be the very oxygen I inhale. The scent, the texture of human overwhelms me for a second. “I'm close,” he says. So am I.

Oh, his sweet, sweet love nectar! Like little droplets of angel tears, trickling out from the scepter of his passion down onto the wet flesh of my mouth! Like Moses's parting the sea, my red river bed! It was no wine bottle being gently tipped down my throat, but it was close, the thick tang of salt swimming laps upon my tongue. I swallowed, thanked him, and the seraphs looked on in awe.

-

I wish simply to be a good person. It is something I have longed for for a while now, but I have begun to ponder it mindlessly in my thankfully now longer, sprawling moments of sobriety.

What makes a person good? If a persons morale is fit and healthy, but their actions betray their thought, are they still good? If someone longs to kill but then does good to attest against their guilt, have they atoned?

If you stab someone and then kiss and heal the wound, are you redeemed?

I wish no longer to disappoint. If I could clasp the mighty biceps on the hands of time and drag it backwards, God above knows I would! Six years ago, I would do it all again. Pepper his knuckles with kisses, buy him arrangements, dine with him every Sunday. The only change I would make, is that I would forgo the drinks at the wedding reception.

I want to tell him this, but my awkward tonsils, my simple-minded tongue do not co-operate. Instead, I decide to buy the milk.

For this week, we have had tea more often than usual, as it turns out he had purchased milk too. We drink together! And thankfully not in the way I am accustomed to. He has been drifting now with a faint barely-there smile tugging at his lips, and I feel like I did 6 years ago. I no longer catch him at 2 AM in the living room. And I am thankful. I do not voice it, but I think he knows. I do not drink as often. We do not sleep together yet. I remain hopeful. He remains a ghost, albeit an appeased one.

-

The doors are locked and there is no way out. For there he is floating above me. The gentle ache of his body reverberating in the dull atmosphere of our tiny shackled room. His eyes are aghast on the porcelain backdrop of his face. Stoic, excluding the burning stream of air behind his back. And I do believe he would have remained there for all eternity, if I had not reached out and...

Like a bullet, he flies down, seeks my face. His eyes like the barrel of a gun. We lay like that for a bit, till he opens his small mouth. The window is locked. Like 2 pillars, inside of him stand rotten ivory teeth, green in the light of the moon. He opens wide, his lips seem to take over his entire face. His tongue licks out like a flame and for a while dances in the musky air, trying to find my face. I leap. It is not enough. I am taken and shot down his throat.

O' scarlet tomb, why hath thou encased me! I am trapped in darkness, sheathed in a prismatic ruby sepulcher. Despite the current predicament, his entrails are not as ghastly as I would have imaged, rather the silent throb of his dark flesh was reassurance, comfort, the closest I could ever physically be to my love. I am small and saintly in the broth-like consistency and seemingly immune to the digestive acid. The walls remind me of an xylophone. I can hear a rattling key from outside. I can feel his liver below my feet. My new home begins to convulse slightly, but I think not much of it, deciding instead to rummage through the contents of this soupy ocean. Is that the parma ham I was saving for a special occasion?

I take my clothes off and they dissolve underneath my fingertips. I backstroke and I am crowned by chunks of semi digested food. The stomach trembles again. The tight hole of his duodenum is soon kissing my foot lovingly. I try to free myself, to no avail.

I am dragged down among the stupor of intestines and food. My body is suctioned and my guts are spread inside my skin. My bones crack and grind in the machinery of his body, and I can now feel the soft mush of my lungs dribble out of my mouth. Suddenly, brown is smeared around my entire body and I retch, and soon my own bile joins the rest of the gang. Family reunion.

I can faintly hear knocking and rattling of doors.

After what seems like hours of excruciating pain, I see light. There is dark blue, the stench of rotten food and empty booze bottles. I struggle to no avail.

I am falling from his intestines to the garbage below.

I awake before I hit the ground. Dan is not next to me.

 

_Dan, I am sat in a room similar to the one_

_you are sat in right now, my endless abysmal tomb_

_Since the day I was shat from our Mother Nature's womb_

_I have done nothing but tear your pure heart into two_

_I am silent in sorrow and I have a request_

_My right hand is my right and my left hand is my left_

_I do believe to be made by God was a mistake_

_These four walls are but a coffin - sail me down the lake_

 

The sun was vibrant in the pale light of day. Phil was sat by his window with bleary eyes. As the hummingbirds sweetly sang to one another, the sun held down a canary ray to Phil, like my hand on the Sistine Chapel. Phil graciously accepted.

So there he stood in the sweet noon-time air, which lapped across him and kissed his skin delicately, like waves covering the ocean. And slowly, languidly, the rain began to softly patter down. Phil held out his tongue as the droplets danced across his skin. He was outside.

 


End file.
